


The Distance Between Oblivious and Smitten is a Bicycle

by Ghrelt



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghrelt/pseuds/Ghrelt
Summary: Mac is oblivious.  Until he's not.  Miller is... maybe something else.
Relationships: Duncan MacReady/Jim Miller
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	The Distance Between Oblivious and Smitten is a Bicycle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to Drake! Hope you like it.

Duncan MacReady would hate it if anyone called him predictable, no matter how true it may be. 

He’s standing in the street, coffee in hand. Standard resting scowl-face in place. (He’d shoot someone for calling it the more colloquial term. Even his boss, whom he otherwise seems to like and respect.)

Mac’s the type to notice things. It’s part of the job, and he’s good at the job. But sometimes a person gets an idea so far into their head it makes them see things wrong.

For example: One James Miller lives his entire life in either suits, or body armor. It would never occur to Mac to even consider that the man in skin-tight technical fabric with sunglasses and a bike helmet who goes streaking by on a bike worth more than some of the cars it passes, might possibly be his boss.

It’s so far outside the realm of possibility that he doesn’t even consider it. 

Which is entirely hilarious to said boss, who has started making a game of how often he can predict when Mac will be at the coffee shop. He passes him, unrecognised, at least once a week since he first saw Mac there by chance a couple months back.

Jim has been cycling for years; a hobby he adopted from his ex husband when they first started dating, kept after the relationship went to shit. The movement, the speed, the lack of people nattering at him, all add up to a quiet space in his head that’s difficult to find elsewhere in his life.

He maintains a strict image at work, to the point where he doesn’t exercise with his men. He does that at home, taking long hours with the heavy bag and getting cardio on the bike whenever he can fit it in. 

Miller would have continued to get away with it, too, if it wasn’t for the accident.

He’s had a few minor wrecks over the years, but nothing since arriving in Prague. Until one sunny day when a kid gets away from his mom and bolts into the street right in Miller’s path. It’s hit the kid or a parked car.

Not even a question, even if Jim wasn’t a father. He hits the car, bike plowing into the front wheel and sending him skidding across the hood to land crumpled in a heap on the sidewalk on the other side.

Ow. Fuck. Ow. Everything hurts and for a few seconds he has no idea where the hell he is. And the face that appears over him is fuzzy.

The voice is clear though. “Don’t move. You just had quite the wreck,” the gruff, English-accented voice says, calm and even. Mac doesn’t do panic.

Well. He doesn’t do panic like other people.

Because when the man reaches up to pull off his broken sunglasses, Mac’s brain shorts out.

This is-

This is not-

This can’t be-

And then restarts, logging details like the blood coming down one cheek, sliding its way past his jawline and down his throat. The helmet with its chin strap that seems to alter the shape of Jim Miller’s face. The skin-tight cycling jersey his _boss_ is currently wearing. The cycling shorts. The man’s _bare calves_.

Mac must have gone all Victorian when he wasn’t paying attention because that sight nearly sends his head back to static.

For some reason the idea that Miller even had calves had never even crossed Mac’s mind. Well it’s crossed it now, and Mac doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

Good thing he’s professional, and goes into auto-pilot as he takes over the scene. He gets a nearby onlooker to check on the kid. (Kid’s fine, and currently getting chewed out by a terrified-but-relieved mother.) Helps Miller get the helmet off and examines it closely, finding it entirely unscathed. Good. Jim never hit his head, and that likely rules out a neck injury as well. He is pretty bruised and scraped up though. “Need me to call an ambulance?” he asks after he’s checked him over without letting him move.

“No I don’t need a goddamn ambulance,” comes the annoyed snarl of the man on the pavement. But his tone softens a moment later as he tries to get up. “Might need help getting back to my apartment though.”

He’s moving stiffly and there’s blood all down one side of him. Mac offers him a hand, hauling him to his feet and steadying him there. “You dizzy?” says Mac.

Miller shakes his head, albeit slowly. “No. Just sore. How’d my bike fare?”

Mac slings Miller’s arm over his shoulder and braces his palm against his boss’s back as they limp around to the street.

Miller’s groan says everything as he spies the mangled wreck that was his front tire, and the bike’s just-bent-enough-to-be-totalled frame. “Shit,” he says. “Do you have any goddamn idea how much that thing cost?”

“I’m guessing I’d rather not know,” Mac replies in his usual gruff rasp.

Miller pulls a business card out of a hidden pocket in his jersey and slips the card under the car’s windshield wiper as Mac lifts the surprisingly light bike in one hand. “Let’s get you home,” he says.

It’s a sign of how injured he actually is, that Miller leans on him as hard as he does. And Mac’s getting an up-close-and-personal impression of just what strength Miller hid under those suits.

Not a goddamn ounce of fat. The man’s solid muscle. _Shit._ He’s never going to un-know that. Or the curve and flex of Miller’s calves.

This is not a complication Mac needs right now. Or ever. He has terrible taste and worse luck and an attraction to his _boss_ is just… 

He’d rather not think about it, thanks.

Mac’s been attracted to men before, but never like this. Never has it hit him so suddenly, or unexpectedly. Never after years of knowing someone, has his libido suddenly sat up and said, _Hel-lo._

He shuts that down, focusing on getting them back to Miller’s apartment. Compartmentalising. He’s good at that. Problem at hand. Ignore the rest.

Plus it’s not the easiest thing, balancing the man on one side and the bike on the other. For a second he wonders what happened to his coffee; a fleeting, nonsensical, unimportant detail in all this. But a welcome distraction. “Where do you live, anyways?” he asks once his brain’s righted itself. He’s never actually been there. James Miller keeps his work and home life strictly separate.

“Couple blocks. That way,” he says with a nod in the right direction. His hand is strong on Mac’s shoulder as he steadies himself, and moves a little easier, limp less pronounced as they go. “You going to tell them what happened?” he asks.

“What, your heroic bail into a car to save a kid’s life?” he quips. “Makes for a good story but who the fuck would believe me that you’re a _cyclist_?”

Miller chuckles softly. “So. You know my secret. Not planning on holding it over my head for eternity?”

“And have you send me some place with all sand and no beer? No thanks.”

“Glad you understand the situation,” Miller says drily.

It’s all Mac can do to hold back a laugh.

It’s a long, stuttering journey but they get to the apartment complex eventually. Mac abandons the bike in the fancy courtyard to help Miller get up the stairs. Waits as Jim lets himself in and helps get him to a chair at the kitchen table before jogging back down to bring the bike up. 

Mac sets it down, leaning it against the counter and closing the door behind him. “Nice place,” he says, taking in the giant Australian flag, open concept main floor, and slightly messy kitchen.

“Thanks,” Jim replies as he stares at the damage to his baby. It’s done. Unsalvageable. Fucking tragedy, that. He sighs as he braces on the table to creak to his feet. 

Mac walks over to help steady him without asking, figuring Miller might bitch him out for it, but he’ll likely take the help regardless. He idly wonders if they’re about to tackle more stairs. “Need me to call the doc?” They’re not far from TF29’s headquarters. She could be here in minutes.

“No I don’t need you to call the goddamn doctor,” Miller snarls as he sets a hand on Mac’s shoulder and turns to cut through the kitchen towards the bathroom. He plunks himself down on the bench just inside, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. Letting his eyes close as every scrape and bruise makes itself known all over again.

Mac goes to the sink, grabbing a clean cloth and wetting it with warm water. He turns just in time to see his boss grabbing the hem of his skintight cycling jersey and yanking it up and off himself with absolutely no warning.

And that

is not

a sight

that Mac was prepared for. Like, ever. 

Because next to the growing purple and blue bruises along his hip and ribcage on one side, are long planes of lean, hard muscle. And not an ounce of fat. Skin catching the light, faintly sweat-damp. A dusting of silver and black hair over his chest, trailing down to his navel and disappearing into his shorts. Which he is making no move to take off, thank all the gods who ever existed.

Jim is, however, staring. At his right-hand man, who’s currently trying to catch flies with that open mouth. Frozen as he takes it in. Jim distantly wonders how he switched Mac from ‘lets get a doctor’ mode, to ‘deer in the headlights’. “You still with me?” he asks, softer.

Mac blinks, shaking himself out of it. “Yeah. You got a first aid kit around here?”

Jim rolls his eyes. Like he wouldn’t have a first aid kit. And a stockpile of MREs. And everything he needs to tape, suture, and splint himself so he doesn’t have to tell TF29 the shit he gets into when he’s not at work. He reaches under the bench he’s sitting on to drag out a red duffel bag with a giant white cross on it. “I do.”

Mac grunts as he returns to Miller’s side, raising the cloth to his cheek and carefully cleaning the nick there.

Jim winces, sucking air through his teeth at the touch. 

“Sorry,” Mac says softly. He means it. These things sting like a bitch when you clean them, which he well knows.

“I’m a big boy. I can handle it,” Miller says drily. 

That earns him a glance, and shit. Mac hadn’t realised how close they were. Because Miller’s sitting and Mac’s down on one knee and in order to be close enough to clean the wound, he’s close enough to-

Mother _fuck_ er. That is not a thought Mac needs right now. Or ever. He swallows, snapping his gaze away and down to Miller’s arm. He’s a little less gentle cleaning that.

The flecks in a pair of blue-grey eyes are indelibly etched in his vision.

He’s never noticed those before.

For his part, Jim seems oblivious. Or at least calm. His forearm is pretty badly skinned, still oozing blood. 

“You want me to bandage this, or are you going to take a shower first?” Mac says, gesturing to his forearm.

Yes, because doing this with Miller in a _towel_ will make it so much easier.

“Should rinse off the road,” he says after a moment’s thought. “After we get the wounds clean.” 

Oddly, he hasn’t kicked Mac out, despite the fact that he could reach any of the wounds to clean them himself. Mac rises to his feet and returns to the sink to rinse the cloth, only then glancing around the bathroom.

“Jesus Christ, Miller. This bathroom’s bigger than my apartment.” He takes in the massive shower on one end, and the pool-disguised-as-a-tub sunk into the floor behind him. 

The barked laugh that earns from Jim sends shivers up Mac’s spine and sure, fine. In for a penny, in for a goddamn pound, apparently. His entire body has turned traitor.

“Damn desk job has its perks,” Miller says as Mac wrings the life out of the cloth. Stares down at it. Sighs. Wets it again and returns to clean Miller’s side. 

His very muscular side.

It’s badly bruised. A couple small cuts and the rest of the blood came from his arm. He presses his fingers in against Miller’s ribs after they’re clean, testing for tenderness.

From the sounds escaping Jim’s lips, yeah. They’re tender. But there’s no give and Miller hasn’t decked him yet. So he’s going to take that as confirmation nothing’s broken or cracked.

“Nothing’s broken,” Mac declares when he’s done checking.

“Could have told you that from the walk. Was all that poking around entirely necessary?” Miller grumbles.

Mac looks up, grinning. “How often do I get to do this? Of course it’s neces-

He doesn’t get a chance to finish.

Because, for all Mac’s been blindsided by his sudden, intense attraction, it’s not him who initiates the kiss.

One second he’s smiling up at his disgruntled boss, and the next he’s being dragged in by his shirt, a pair of thin lips mashed against his.

And Mac being Mac, he jumps in with both feet. Or lips, as the case may be.

And tongue.

There’s no freezing. No careful exploration. One second their lips meet and the next Mac’s open and he’s exploring the inside of Miller’s mouth with all the subtlety and gentleness of a precision airstrike.

Miller doesn’t meet him halfway so much as settle in, melting under the onslaught. Letting Mac take what he wa-

Mac’s eyes, that closed somewhere between being interrupted and tongues, slam open. He pulls back, holding only inches away from Miller’s damp lips. His gaze rakes over that so-familiar face. The scar on his chin. The barest flush in his cheeks. And that gaze that holds oceans of depth, calm and even and serene.

“How long?” says Mac. “Jesus Christ, Miller. How long have you-

Mac lets the statement hang.

It takes Jim a few moments to form the words.

“Years.”

And then it’s Mac who closes the distance.


End file.
